


lay me low

by barbariccia



Category: Drag-On Dragoon | Drakengard
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fisting, Human/Dragon Relationship, Human/Dragon Sex, Nightmares, Other, Squint and you miss it mention of incest, Telepathic Bond, Teratophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbariccia/pseuds/barbariccia
Summary: We could be at Furiae’s side in a heartbeat,he tells the dragon, and lifts his eyes to glare at it.We do not need that rabble at our heels.A detour to find Seere's sister is the last thing Caim needs.
Relationships: Caim/Red Dragon | Angel(us)
Kudos: 23





	lay me low

**Author's Note:**

> big shoutout to abby who not only patiently read through for mistakes but gave me tips on how one might theoretically make love to a dragon, and a bigger shoutout to nibbles who told me to write this in the first place
> 
> set during the Seere's Prayer portion of the game.

Caim and the dragon stand as one.

Well, the dragon doesn’t so much _stand_ as _struggle_ to its feet instead. It has no forelimbs to hold itself steady with, and the great wings upon its back - magnificent though they are - are no help in lifting its great bulk.

The boy scrambles to his feet too, with the haste only youth can muster. “Where are you going?” he asks, and even takes a step after them as though he means to accompany them. Neither Caim nor the dragon spare him so much as a single glance, though the beast at least deigns to answer where the man does not, with a voice like the cascading of gravel.

“To hunt.”

* * *

On his own, Caim keeps a good pace. High above him the dragon is nothing more than a speck, leaving him to trudge the earth as men must do, but this foible of his is no true failure. No, his pace is his power, and no longer burdened by a _company_ he is able to put that power to use, at long last, though his destination will eventually be the camp once more.

One step. Two. Another, and another, and Furiae is on his mind like his shadow meets his foot. There is no ridding himself of her, like there is no ridding himself of the people that have attached themselves to him, like there is no ridding himself of the blade at his side, like there is no ridding himself of the dragon.

Even so high above, their connection means he is never truly alone, not even when he walks slower or turns his back on it. They are one mingled, _mangled_ soul in two bodies, neither of them good for more than the revenge they have set out to take upon the world. It at least _feels_ like revenge, though neither of them have said so. Every life it takes by flame or claw is one less human for it to need to hate, and every body that falls by his blade is one more step toward Furiae. Furiae. _Furiae._

 _Caim_.

Bells toll quieter than the dragon’s voice does. He fancies that it echoes endlessly in his mind, so that even were it to speak quietly the noise would still drive him to madness. He is pushed this way and that by the sound, pulled forward even as he tries to stay in place. Were it not for their bond his blade would have found a new scabbard in its throat a long time ago, soft scales parting like silk before steel, the beast’s lifesblood rushing over him. It would smell good, he thinks, imagining the crimson ocean bearing him away. It would taste good, he knows.

 _Caim_.

But its voice has become familiar to him, more than his own, to his despair and horror. Never was he a stranger to silence, but to have control wrested from him is more strange than he could have ever dreamed. At all times the pact that keeps him alive - _both_ of them, he must remind himself - haunts his mind. Was it worth it? Should he have kneeled before the beast and perished instead of baring the most secret, sacred part of him? Will Furiae forgive him?

Caim has no answers. He is not sure he ever will.

 _Will the boy be safe, Caim?_

Annoyed, he glances skyward. The dragon tilts this way and that as it rides the currents with enviable ease, but beyond the glint of its red scales he can make no details out of it. His mind’s eye fills instead with the _boy_ , the brat keeping him here in the Blue Mountains and away from his sister’s side. As sure as the sun rises with the dawn, he hates the child almost as much as he hates the dragon, almost as much as he hates the Empire. He is odious, naïve to the point of willful stupidity, and remains behind with Arioch… and Leonard. If the boy is in one piece by the time they come back to the camp, it will be nothing short of a miracle.

 _Will you be pleased if he is strewn across the canyon on our return?_ asks the dragon, pressing him this way and that, guiding him here and there. Never was he a stranger to silence, and he wishes dearly it was _still_ silent in his mind. _If Arioch’s mouth runs crimson? If-_

 _If the pederast wants to diddle the brat then let him_ , Caim says without speaking. Far below the beast, he cannot hear the way it snorts, but can imagine it all too easily. _I’ll do them a favour when I take their heads. Both of them_.

There is no response to his words, which he has come to expect. A creature so disgusted with humanity ought not take such issue with Caim’s brand of bloodthirstiness, but it encourages civility, if not kindness, on what feels like a daily basis. Failing that, its reprimands are numerous enough that a ride upon its back all but guarantees a talking-to.

 _What?_ he had asked once. _The slaughter of a battalion is just fine, but the deaths of only one or two is what causes you to take offense?_

 _You do not understand, boy_ , was the response, and so had started the lectures.

Caim still does not understand anymore than he knows why fire is hot and water wet, and the not knowing does not vex him as much as the repeated attempts to make him understand do. He listens, for he cannot _not_ , and this seems to satisfy the beast, for it lets him press close at night to leech the heat from its scales. The first time, it had looked curiously down at him, but not denied him, and no matter the disagreements they share, the habit persists now. Privately, he fancies their hearts beat in time, and the thought both soothes and enrages him til he can stand it not at all.

A goat, or some creature similar enough it makes no difference to him, startles as his boots crunches the dust and dirt down. It backs up a couple of paces and lowers its head; Caim simply stops to watch the stupid thing make the decision to charge.

Good. _Good_.

As he draws his sword he thinks of the dragon swooping from on high to snatch the animal up in its cavernous maw, and his blood runs hot at the thought alone. It would grind the thing’s bones into paste, leave no trace upon the earth, and it would do _nothing_ for his mood - but even so, he finds himself hoping, _hoping_ …

There is no beating of wings, no whistling of wind that signals a coming death, and Caim does not even bother to turn his head to look for the beast. His sword flashes instead, and the charging animal’s hooves beat across the dirt for a few extra steps before the body follows the path of its head, and falls to the floor.

* * *

The mountains are more sparse than Caim could ever have believed a place could be, but despite this he has found enough scrub to build a fire. No easy thing, without breath of flame, but he did not survive Caerlon’s fall to die unable to fend for himself. The goat has long since been skinned and carved up, and now it drips fat into the flames, glistening with juice and hissing as fierce as any beast. Knees drawn up, Caim watches it cook in silence, and is not at all surprised when a great shadow falls upon him. As easy as a band of rubber snapping, the dragon returns to him.

 _You won’t eat all of that_ , it tells him, and stretches its neck out to drag the rest of the carcass toward itself. First to go is a leg, pulled from the body effortlessly and disappeared down its gullet in a flash, then another, and then it is tearing the rest of the animal apart. The noise it makes as it eats is exactly as he’d imagined earlier.

 _Can’t you eat quietly?_ he asks, never once taking his eyes from his fire. _Are you that uncivilised?_

 _You are in no position to lecture me on civility, boy_ , it tells him. _Eat. I will not see you grow weak on my watch_.

He ignores the dragon in favor of leaving the meat to sizzle on the campfire, though the sight and smell is tempting. Used to his insubordination, the dragon stretches instead of rebukes him, stretching its wings out far enough that he fancies he can see moonlight through the membrane.

 _Will we return tonight?_ It asks, as though it is enquiring about something as banal as the weather. Caim recognises the threat for what it is: if he runs off, he will be doing so alone.

 _We could be at Furiae’s side in a heartbeat_ , he tells the dragon, and lifts his eyes at long last to glare at it. He can see the glint of flames reflected in its dark eyes. _We do not need that rabble at our heels. Your wings beat swifter than any pace we set-_

There is silence, and then the beast snorts. The flames of his fire flicker sharply. _The Goddess will keep_ , it says, and stretches its neck out now, wings folded once more upon its back. The night has grown chillier, and Caim can see the long plumes of its breath as steam. It takes him back sharply: the stone of Castle Caerlon turning black under the endless assault of dragonsflame; the beams igniting and turning to coal, and then to ash; the screams, the _smells_.

He blinks, and he’s on his feet. The dragon watches him, unreadable, inscrutable.

This is not the first time he has wished he still could use his tongue. Worse things could have been forced upon him than _silence_ , and it has served him well enough - if he’d had to _entertain_ the rabble he might well have bitten his tongue off himself - but when his anger bursts, when that dam of willpower breaks and all he wishes is to scream himself hoarse, until his throat aches and he can taste blood at the back of his mouth, to make his fury known to someone, _anyone_ that isn’t a _dragon_ …

 _The faster_ , he tries, heart hammering so hard he can barely hear himself think, _The faster we find her, the faster I can be rid of you_. Dimly, he realises his fists are so tightly clenched his nails are like to draw blood from his palms. _Is that not what you want, beast? Your soul back, unsullied by human filth? To be free? Gods take you_ _—_

His audience has let his anger reach a crescendo, uninterrupted, but now the dragon spreads its wings and _roars_. He’s stunned, all thought knocked from his mind.

 _“Do not speak to me of the gods, boy,_ ” it snarls, the words ringing within and without. “Do not presume to know my mind. _The Goddess will keep_ \- or do you no longer trust me? Shall we end our pact here and now, and do battle in the name of dubiety instead?”

It settles back once more, wings folding into place, but it is not calm. That much is given away by its tail, which snaps to and fro as though the beast is but an agitated cat: it knocks the campfire to pieces, embers and meat alike scattering into the dark. But for the light of the moon, the night is dark, and _cold_ , now, and Caim finds himself wordless.

 _I--_ he starts, heart hammering away like it means to burst from his breast, but the dragon growls, a low, rumbling thing that he feels through his entire body.

“What are you?” it snarls. Its breath smells like carrion.

The night is dark and cold and unfeeling, and it emboldens Caim, who thinks, _this is but another beast, and can be slayed like the rest of them_. The words are not safe even in the prison of his own mind; the dragon roars, somehow louder than the last.

 _I am Caim_ , he says, and it is the wrong answer. The monster snaps at him, and he trips over his feet in his haste to get away from those terrible, _terrible_ teeth. 

_You are human!_ the dragon says back. It is still growling, too loud to allow words to slip out, and for once the pact is something of a blessing. _You are mortal, and you are as blind and unknowing as a newborn. Have a care for how you speak to me, who knows and sees more, else I will break this pact_.

He can’t help it; he laughs aloud. It is a terrible sound without a voice to support his mirth, more akin to choking than any sound that ought to come from him. _You would kill yourself to win an argument? You are more human than I am, beast_.

He never sees what knocks him out.

* * *

Scales as black as ink. The stench of smoke hanging heavy in the air. A weight on his chest like he might never breathe again, and the feeling of dimness cloying his mind as though he’s spent a night and a day drinking. 

The dragon - his parents - Caerlon -

 _Go back to sleep_ , the dragon grumbles. Its tail is tight around him, and now curls tighter, the great spade at its end laying flat against his chest. _Your squirming has disturbed me_.

Closing his eyes again is tempting, but Caim struggles against the siren song of sleep. His head is as slow as the finest hangover, but he refuses to give in, not when his heart still beats so fast from memories best left untouched. It’s still dark, though he can no longer see the moon, and though the sound of the beast’s voice in his mind is familiar enough, he runs his hands over the scales of its tail to reassure himself that that too feels familiar. He will have to trust that they are red rather than the black his eyes can only see by light’s lack.

When he opens his mouth, only a croak comes out. The tail about his body tightens, and he can do no more than sink into it. The dragon has not so much as lifted its head to look his way; either its pride is well stung, or it is tired. 

It comes back to him in drips, the memory of his outburst. He feels no guilt, but something uncomfortable curls tight in his gut instead as he remembers the insult he levied the dragon’s way. He has killed men for lesser slights, but he is still alive. He does not think he will ever understand the beast’s brand of mercy… but perhaps that is for the best. Caim is, after all, only human.

 _Forgive me_ , he says, and gathers his strength to lay a hand against the scales on its great leg. Here the plates are tougher than those he rides upon, which he is ever grateful for, having experienced saddle-sores in his youth.

At first there is no response, not even the shifting of muscle to indicate she has heard him. _I acted out of turn_ , he adds, and runs his hand against its leg the way he knows - he _hopes_ \- the beast likes. _I should not have_ \- 

_No,_ the dragon rumbles, and moves, barely, so he has room to wriggle free if he so desires. He does not. _You should not have. But I am no stranger to concern - especially not for one’s broodmates._

Despite himself, Caim’s face twists in anger. They are not dragons, no matter what words this one uses to describe them. They are the furthest things from those beasts of destruction. Rather, they _were_ , once. Caim is as much a tool of death as the beast he’s resting against now, and the Goddess is no longer a woman.

If the dragon knows his feelings, it does not comment on them. Instead it watches him; he discovers this with a sharp jolt that might be fear when he lifts his head. _I will not tell you to forsake Furiae, but know that even did we know where she is kept, we could not be at her side in an instant. I am good, but not that good_ , it adds, with a touch of amusement. _Concern yourself elsewhere, for now._

 _How?_ Caim asks, praying his frustration bleeds into the simple question. Waking has cast him into some unknown world where everything is backwards and upside-down, a world he neither knows nor loves. _How am I meant to-?_

The dragon blinks at him. It is a very deliberate gesture, and Caim recognises it as akin to rolling its eyes. It is making fun of him. 

_You do not expect me to give you every answer, I hope_ , it tells him, and its tail tightens about him. _Sleep, and learn for yourself on the morrow._

* * *

Dawn has still not broken by the time Caim’s eyes open once more, but he at least feels rested. The dragon’s tail is still looped around him, keeping him warm, and he finds his hands idly stroking across the scales as he considers struggling free. Just the creature’s tail alone is strong with muscle.

Strong, but lax with sleep, he finds, as his hands quest further afield, to the base of the dragon’s tail and then to the leg he can reach, tucked comfortably under its body. It is hard to think of it as anything other than powerful, when he has seen it rain death upon the endless battlefield. Powerful, and terrible, and warm.

Not for the first time he wonders what it must be like to _be_ a dragon, to have wings in the place of arms, and a tail, and horns. Does it have trouble keeping balance? Does it shed scales like little lizards do? Is it uncomfortable? It must be, he thinks, fingers running across the ridge of one scale and its overlap, but he cannot imagine how it must feel to be anything other than human. Hell, he cannot imagine what it must be like to be anything other than _male_ , at that - though Furiae had asked, when they were younger and more like to sneak off and play at things together. She’d been more curious than he, and they’d compared parts in the manner of children, and he had forgotten all beyond how neatly tucked away she had been.

The thoughts come back to him unbidden, and his idly-searching hand dips _in_ where he had expected to continue _along_. Awake now, he lifts his head to look, but his eyes see no difference where his fingers feel one. Smoother, softer scales, as red as the rest of the beast, and a hidden fold that gives easily when he presses against it.

“Caim,” says the dragon. Her voice is tight as a bowstring, waiting for the moment to fly or be lowered and loosened. “What are you doing?”

 _Did I wake you?_ Caim asks, mind fixed not at all on his words. His fingers are tacky when he pulls them out, the smell inoffensive. _I didn’t mean to. Go back to sleep_.

If she takes umbrage to the echo of her own words, she does nothing more than rumble, but he cannot think the noise a threat when she does nothing to stop his hands. Here they dip, finding grit beneath a plate - he digs it out with no more thought behind it than he would to scratch an itch - and there they roam, to commit every bump and ridge to memory.

When his fingers return to that queerly-textured fold once more, the dragon raises her head to stare. A gentleman, Caim ignores her. Her claws are no more mystery than fingernails, her horns no stranger than a crown. But this - this warmth, this sensation familiar to him only from fading memories -...

“ _Caim_ ,” she growls. The timbre of her voice ripples through him as though she is a stone and he a lake: it sinks to his core and rests there, the feeling flooding through him over and over, no less weaker each time.

If she wanted to, she could stop him in any number of ways. All it would take is the sharp flex of a wing, the stretch of a leg, the swipe of her tail, which does not curl quite so tight around him now, the better for him to get closer. She could roast him for daring to put his hands upon her at all, but she does not, and his entire hand disappears past the weak resistance of muscle.

He has lain with women before - faceless, now, and nameless - but he does not remember any having made a sound so beautiful before. The dragon lifts her head and _roars_ , but his head does not ring so bad that he loses focus. No, it drives him on, and in sinks his hand further, until even his wrist is disappeared from view too, and the scorching warmth of her is all he can feel, beyond even the ridges inside her, or the feel of the wind on his bare cheeks.

 _Your depravity knows no bounds, boy_ , she says, the words a comforting thrum in his mind. In answer, he balls his fist in answer and she roars again. She is hot as the sun, wet as any woman he has taken to bed before, and he cannot imagine how it must feel for her. Not just to have a hand buried in her, but to feel it flex, to know it belongs to something she considers worse than mere enemy. Caim is a thorn, an unwelcome intrusion, in all senses.

 _My name is Caim_ , he reminds her, and his arm sinks yet deeper. This far within her, he can feel the snarl she makes as much as hear it, and then her tail lifts. For a moment he thinks she means to finally rid herself of him, but it only quivers in the air, the great muscle almost too beautiful to behold. He bares his teeth, pleased.

“ _Caim_ ,” she hisses. In the cool of the early morning her breath steams much as it had during the night, more beautiful for the improved visibility. He does not see, eyes fixed where their flesh joins. Within her, his fist unclenches, the better to feel her, to run his fingers against the ridges of her. There’s so many, it feels as though his arm has been caught in some strange warm vise.

 _Not just a dragon_ , he tells her, _but a woman, too._ Before her tail falls it trembles; whether by coincidence or design it drapes over his shoulder, the spade flat against his back, warm as any summer’s day. _Your cunt’s like any other. I suppose a clitoris would be too much to ask for?_

She doesn’t answer. Instead her head turns, and her eyes glitter dark, perhaps a warning, perhaps a plea. When her great maw opens, the sight of all her teeth sets his blood to blazing. If he does not take himself in hand, he will _die_. No man has ever seen such beauty before, and if he cannot spill to her then his life has been for nothing, for _nothing_ -

But he cannot: her legs shift, and she stands, every inch of her trembling as she does. Caim must pull his arm free or be lifted with her: he does so reluctantly. When he flexes his hand - it aches, after having her clamp down around him - his fingers stick together. And the dragon roars.

“You _dare_ ,” she growls, and she turns with enough force that a cleverer man ought turn and flee. Caim does not. Even when she is not her full height she towers above him; she is built entirely of death and destruction, and he is mad and brave and unafraid.

 _Did you finish?_ he wonders, and does not miss the way the muscles in her legs go tense. _I can-_

Whatever he _can_ is left unsaid. She bellows something that might be a challenge and lunges for him: he ducks, but she knows him better than he knows himself. Her tail, that beauteous thing that kept him safe and warm, is what strikes true, knocking him to his feet. All he can see is her chest, white and red and scaled, and then her weight is upon him, pinning his legs in place. Her snout comes to rest against his collar, and when she speaks he must look either into her terrible mouth or her terrible eyes. Her breath smells like embers. Caim has never smelt anything so good in all his life.

“I should _kill_ you,” she growls. The sound makes a home in his gut. “I should kill you for daring to touch me. For-”

_Are you going to?_

Silence reigns for a long moment. She’s still growling; Caim knows if he shifted it would feel delightful. “Be silent,” she settles for. “I should tear you limb from limb like the animal you are and spread your entrails from here to the crest of Mount Bernstein.”

 _But I won’t_ , goes unsaid, and the weight against his legs shifts. The blood rushing back to his thighs makes him wince, and he _does_ shift, to make sure his knees still work. She’s still close, close enough that he brushes up against her, and he falls still and silent.

She’s still looking at him, and Caim boldly lifts an arm after one heartbeat, two - slow, so she doesn’t startle - to touch her jaw. 

“No man has ever touched me before,” she says. He does not ask if she means men or _men_. He is not interested in the answer.

 _No man ever made a pact with you, either_ , he reminds her. _But I am you, and you are me_.

Her wings unfold, a display of dominance he's expecting. This time he doesn’t flinch even when they buffet the wind so hard his eyes water.

" _I_ am me," she tells him. "Do not presume to know my mind."

 _You know mine_.

Outstretched, like every other part of her, her wings are a thing of beauty, a priceless art to be kept for his eyes alone and marvelled at every day. The weak morning sun illuminates them; the veins are dark within the membrane like lace, finer than any lady’s dress.

 _I know yours_ , she agrees, and settles her weight upon him once again. Caim has not missed his voice so much as he does now, when he wants to shout and can only throw his head back. In the face of her anger he had almost forgotten his own arousal, but it bursts to life once more with the barest scrap of attention.

 _Please_ , he thinks, over and over and over. Trapped beneath her, all he can do is strain to raise his hips in any capacity. All of him is hers to do with as she wishes.

 _Please_.

* * *

Peaceful in slumber, Seere has not a mark on him when they return, which Caim thinks is a shame. One, two, three, four - all accounted for, he can ignore the party anew, and slides from the dragon’s neck with practised ease.

The blind man turns his face to the sound. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

"In a manner of speaking," the dragon says. "wake the child. every moment we waste here is a moment we could be using to find the Goddess."


End file.
